


Origin Points

by Sgt_Sarcastic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgt_Sarcastic/pseuds/Sgt_Sarcastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Warm bricks made way for beautifully painted shutters and a sloped, black roof. Smoke curled invitingly up chimneys situated at both ends of the house. At the front, an immaculately painted green door opened upon approach. Even the staff was somber yet Brigham couldn't blame them; Alistair had been a well liked man.'</p><p>- - -</p><p>It was said for centuries that one cannot take back time. Like words, once it has been utilized, it cannot be returned. </p><p>...But what if it all could?</p><p>For Brigham Faulkner, time was everything. The very concept of it had consumed the life of his grandfather and the protection of it had eventually caused the old man's untimely demise. As the next guardian, Brigham has some big shoes to fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fast Forward To The End

Rain pounded the already saturated ground. The heavy flow of runoff swirling down into storm drains overpowered the adrenaline fed pounding in the ears of the young man that ran headlong down those soaked streets. His breath came in heavy puffs.

 _'My trainers are soaked.'_ The thought came despite the fact that he knew he had worse matters to keep his focus on. In retrospect, it was funny what one would often think of in horrible situations. He knew for a fact that when his grandfather had died he had stood stone still in shock and wondered why in the seventh circle of _Hell_ his grandmother was worried about the man's glasses. It had been a coping method and now, in a desperate situation himself, he couldn't help but think of that moment and how it so closely resembled his own. He hadn't known it then, but looking back he could see the stress that his grandfather had felt when he too had been the Guardian. The responsibility had killed him. No, their enemies had killed him... but it had been the responsibility that old Alistair had felt that had driven him to defend the God forsaken thing right to his last breath. Had he handed it over he might have lived. _Might_. Now that same desperation drove _him_.

Cars sped past. No time to stop. A horn blared and tires squealed but he dodged around the vehicle anyways and didn't stop even when the driver sprang forth to yell obscenities at him. It didn't matter. That woman didn't even realize he was saving her life but _he_ did.

Lightning flashed above. Time was running out. "Shit." The word tore from his throat in a desperate, wheezing hiss. The burning in his legs was enough to remind him that he had never run so damn far in his life. For one sweet second he could see the disadvantage of having lived a life of modest luxury; it hadn't afforded him many chances to be physically fit. Built decently well for his young age, yes, but not _fit_.

As his objective came into view, he stilled his steps long enough to survey the three men in black suits that stood along the walking trail by the pond in the park. Evil bastards... and they even looked the part. It was all too clear that they had been watching his approach since he reached the gates and, fury building, he ran a tired, shaking hand through the mid length black hair matted to his forehead.

"You're late, Mr. Faulkner." One of the suits spoke. His lips curled up into a decent resemblance to a smile. It lacked conviction. Behind him, the pond was _boiling_.

"Brigham, please. Mr. Faulkner was my father."

The Suit only shrugged. "Titles are useless, in any case. We all know it's what is on the inside that makes a man."

Brigham scowled. "Time-"

With a wave of his glove clad hand, The Suit cut him off. "Time, time, _time_. It's always about time. This whole matter came about because of _time_." His smile was sickly. "Mr. Faulkner, where is the _watch_?"

"That's the crux of the issue, I'm afraid. I don't have it." Brigham squared his shoulders, raised his head high and exhaled slowly under the dark, burning gaze of The Suit. "...Obviously."

The Suit sneered. "Yes. _Obviously_." He licked his lips as if to debate his next words. "You'd best find it. This place, as you're all too well aware, is caught in a time loop. But did you know the details? It takes energy to sustain a time loop. Especially one so short as to only be a period of twenty-four hours before it resets itself again."

Brigham shook his head. "I know that." In the end he backed off. The Suit had jabbed a finger against his chest.

"Then fucking find it! The energy needed to sustain a time loop is tearing this world apart! The temperature is rising!" Evident by the bubbling in the pond. "Too much more and pieces of this era will simply start to _disappear_ , you sorry excuse for a Guardian. Your grandfather would be appalled."

The sting of failure was and always had been a sharp one for the young Guardian. This time was no different. Without so much as a word he gave The Suit a stiff nod, glanced to the others and hastened off into the dark streets. Bile rose in his throat. They were all going to die. He had failed.


	2. Rewind To The Beginning

_June 26, 2013_

How the state of the world had come to such a dire and pathetic end, Brigham could remember all too well as he hurled himself headlong down the dark, hot streets of New Alert City. Skyscrapers towered above. Looking up to one, if he squinted just so, he could see that The Suit was correct; the world was falling apart. At the very tip of the colossal structure, against a sky of ominous, dark clouds, he could just make out that the top two floors were missing and in their place was... nothing. A black hole, fuzzy at the edges. _Nothing_.

People in the streets went about their daily tasks; oblivious. The Guardian felt a sense of dread that no one seemed to notice that their world was slowly falling apart. Brigham wondered if at that time they would even notice if those among them began to disappear with the very design of the universe. Or was it simply the city that decayed? He knew for a fact that the watch wasn't all powerful; it had a limit. Whereas it could move a group of people through time, that group could not exceed four or five individuals. Therefore, if it were in need of repair, how far would the time distortion field contained within it extend? Not to encompass the whole world, he was sure.

Brigham's step slowed until he finally stopped. There was no doubt the watch was in the city, but so long as he remained in New Alert himself, he was running on borrowed time. Would it make a difference if he could find the limit of the time loop, cross it and emerge into a regular, untouched time flow? "No." The Guardian was eventually forced to shake his head; it wouldn't matter as the loop would continue within the city and deterioration would only speed up the longer the loop went on. Whether he was in the city or not, New Alert would eventually cease to exist regardless because the _watch_ was still in the city disrupting the time flow.

That sinking, familiar feeling of helplessness overwhelmed the man again and he couldn't help but once again lament the loss of the last Guardian: his grandfather.

\- - - - -

_October 16, 1887_

Alistair Faulkner was dead. A sea of bodies filled the somber graveyard; surrounding a freshly dug hole in the ground. Eyes were occasionally dabbed with tissues.

It was a curiously sunny day for a funeral and not at all like the stereotypical rainy weather that Brigham had come to expect of such affairs. Books were so often wrong. They portrayed a flawed and yet perfect world in which the sky was bright when one was happy and the clouds came to cry when situations turned dire. Brigham had long since learned that dwelling too long on the perfection and daring adventures in books was a pathetic existence. It didn't do for one to keep their head shoved too far into the clouds.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Grandmother." Brigham turned to the frail woman and encompassed her in his suit-clad arms. His grandfather had been old but he hadn't yet been on the verge of death. Brigham's blue eyes shifted back to the casket; closed. Closed because old Alistair, laid within in his best suit, was sporting a huge, startling hole through his chest. It wasn't the sort that a gun would make though Brigham could still hear the loud _bang_ that had accompanied the attack. It had _sounded_ like a gun and likely had been made to do so. Whatever the Hell it had been, however, had _not_ been a firearm. Brigham was reluctant to suspect magic, of all things, but he knew for a fact his grandfather had been involved in shady dealings of the occult sort. One couldn't rule out the possibility of magic no matter how _impossible_ it seemed.

The crowd dispersed. Brigham followed his grandmother to their carriage.

The ride to the Faulkner Estate proved a silent travesty of a family life- he a grown yet young man that lived with his grandparents as opposed to his _parents_. Now his grandfather was dead; murdered. Brigham set his lightly stubbled jaw firm. The carriage lurched forward.

Rounding the many streets of New Alert, large, iron gates eventually came into view. The Faulkner Estate was not entirely glorious, but did serve as a grand example of New England architecture. Warm bricks made way for beautifully painted shutters and a sloped, black roof. Smoke curled invitingly up chimneys situated at both ends of the house. At the front, an immaculately painted green door opened upon approach. Even the staff was somber yet Brigham couldn't blame them; Alistair had been a well liked man.

"I remember grandfather had a well-kept, gold pocket watch. It was worn in places but loved. Did you have it buried with him?" It was funny what one thought of in times of grief. Brigham, sat in the parlor while he and his grandmother entertained a sham of normalcy, had found the book in his hands unbearable to focus upon at the time.

"No." Grandmother's tone was crisp- the sort of tone and old woman took when she was desperately trying not to cry. "I was given strict instruction that it was to be passed on to you, Brigham dear."

Brigham swallowed thickly and nodded only once. His grandfather had cherished that watch- it would be an honor to have it. In some ways he yearned to see the object but knew that the afternoon after Alistair's burial was not the time. Such situations required _tact_ and while he was what some would call young and often brazen, he _did_ observe the strict social skills his grandmother had lectured on often while he'd been young. "Dinner...?"

Grandmother shook her head. "Not tonight. Have Marie make you something if you're famished, but I doubt my heart could personally make the attempt."

"Maybe your heart cannot, but your body should." Brigham's eyes swept over her thin figure; too thin. Grandmother didn't deign to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sure to be an interesting ride. Everything has been planned, planned again and planned some more. Hopefully, despite this being simply a labor of love and not an attempt at professional grade writing, you all can still find enjoyment in Origin Points.
> 
> \- Sarc


End file.
